


The Bard Who Ruined Christmas - Or did he?

by TheCrownprincessBride



Series: Christmas gifts 2020 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Cooking, Chaotic Bard Energy, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride
Summary: Jaskier wants to cook a special Christmas dinner for Geralt. It goes... spectacularly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Christmas gifts 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065869
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	The Bard Who Ruined Christmas - Or did he?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoblinRuler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinRuler/gifts).



> This is for you, GoblinRuler, to say thank you for all the hilarious tumblr posts, for your amazing ideas and chaotic chats, and for all your help with Djinny. I'm so glad to have met you <3
> 
> I know we talked about this idea a long time ago (or so it feels like), and I just had to put it on paper. I hope you'll enjoy it. I stepped far out my usual angsty comfort zone to bring you some Geraskier sweetness. (Don't get me wrong - there is still a little bit of angst because I can't help myself^^.)

"Shit,” Jaskier curses when the plastic packaging rips open too far and the rice spills out, tumbling all over the floor. “Shit, shit, _shit_!”

Hastily, he empties the remaining contents into the boiling water before he bends down to sweep up the rice that has rolled even into the farthest corner of the kitchen, barely visible on the white tiles. It’s almost 6 pm and Geralt, his boyfriend, will be here at 6.30 sharp. They’d planned to spend Christmas Eve together.

Jaskier wanted to surprise him with a self-made meal because, normally, it is Geralt who does all the cooking. Unfortunately, cooking is not one of Jaskier’s core strengths. Give him an instrument and he’ll play you a tune on it in no time, but _cooking_... well.

The alarming sound of water boiling over and vaporising on the stove top makes him jump up, and he promptly hits his head on the open door of the cupboard. Sharp pain drives tears into his eyes.

“Ow,” he hisses, rubbing his head with one hand, and trying to stir the pot with the other. How does Geralt manage it all so easily? It’s a bloody miracle.

Quickly, he turns the heat lower, taking deep, calming breaths. It’s going to be fine, absolutely fine.

_Rice needs salt, right?_

He snatches the salt out of the open cupboard, dropping a dash into the water, and places it on the empty space next to the green plastic cutting board, where the pumpkin is waiting. Humming lowly, he takes the knife and begins dividing it into halves.

Geralt constantly complained that his blades are too dull, so he brought over a special whetstone for knives, but the singer didn’t have time to sharpen them yet. Maybe, he should have. The pumpkin is big, fighting his efforts to cut it with a vehemence more befitting an angry cat than a vegetable.

“Why won’t you die?!” he almost shouts when the knife gets stuck in the hard flesh _again_ , and he leans down on it with all his strength. Suddenly, the pumpkin gives in, taking Jaskier by surprise, and he instantly knocks over the salt with his elbow. White grain spreads all over the work surface and stove, and he stares at it in horror.

“Shit.”

A glance on the clock tells him that it’s six already. He can clean up later, right? He’ll just stop Geralt from entering the kitchen and all will be fine.

With determination, he manages to kill cut the rest of the pumpkin, adding it to the pan. 

While the vegetables simmer, he dashes into the living room to set the table with the nice bordeaux tablecloth and the expensive porcelain he got from mother for his birthday. He needs this to be perfect. Geralt always puts so much effort into every meal he cooks for Jaskier, experimenting with spices and vegetables and exotic recipes because he knows how much the bard likes it, and Jaskier wants to show him that he _sees_ it, that he appreciates it. He wants to give Geralt some of the love back, the love he shows through little things, like the coffees in bed in the morning, the cuddles when he’s feeling down, the attention he pays him when he talks about a new song or melody _for days_. From the look of him, nobody would ever guess what a sweet man Geralt is.

The singer knows he can be a little too much. Too loud and energetic on some days, singing and rehearsing, and too absorbed in his own world on others, composing without paying attention to his surroundings or unimportant things, like food or people.

For some reason, though, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind at all. So, Jaskier needs to show him how thankful he is to have the man in his life.

Besides, Geralt loves food. Jaskier knows that he will understand the meaning of this dinner better than any song he could ever write – at least, that’s what he hopes. Because nothing screams _I love you_ quite as much as a self-made curry, right? – 

_Right?_ – 

The acrid stench of something burning rips him out of his musings, and he drops the napkin he was folding and races back into the kitchen.

The rice!

Jaskier pulls the pot from the stove, peeking inside. It seems he didn’t add nearly enough water. The bottom layer has burned into the pot, but the top layer seems fine.

Shrugging, Jaskier takes a spoon and puts the unharmed rice into a different pot. He adds a generous amount of water before placing it back on the stove. Carelessly dropping the ruined pot into the sink, he walks over to the window and rips it open to banish the smell.

Maybe it’s time to add the coconut milk and the spices to the vegetables?

He opens the lid, scrutinising the vegetables. He stirs them once, then stirs them again. _Maybe another minute?_

“Nah,” he says. “They’re fine.”

Sceptically, he goggles at the spices in his cupboard that Geralt stocked for the rare – or actually not so rare – occasion that he’s cooking at Jaskier’s place. _Curry. Chilli. Cinnamon. Curcuma. Cumin. So many spices with “C” – oh there, pepper!_ , he thinks and takes them all.

Now the coconut milk –

He freezes in mid-movement. _No!_ He forgot to buy it!

“Fuck,” he curses out loud, eyes flying through the room in desperation. He has a bit of milk left for his coffee, so that should be fine... and for the coconut flavour...?

His eyes land on the big glass jar with sweets that he officially bought for Cirilla, Geralt’s twelve year old daughter, but both of them know that Jaskier eats half the jar alone easily, and he has to refill it about every other week.

The characteristic blue wrapper of _Bounty_ s catches his eye, and an idea forms in his mind.

“They have coconut flavour, right?” he mutters to himself.

Before he can think too long on it, he has crossed the distance and fishes all the coconut chocolate bars out of the jar. Six long bars. He can work with that.

A triumphant grin on his face, he unpacks them and cuts them into small, small pieces. Then, he dumps all of them, together with the spices and the rest of the milk, over the vegetables.

“As if Geralt will notice,” he murmurs, stirring the mix thoroughly. “Now it’s almost real coconut milk.”

A glance on the clock tells him that he has just enough time to change into something nicer before Geralt will be here.

Happy that he fixed the coconut problem, the singer jumps over the pile of rice on the floor and races to his room to change.

He just managed to close the last button of his midnight blue shirt, which brings out the blue in his eyes, when the doorbell rings.

“Coming,” he calls. On his way, he quickly turns the stove off before anything else can burn and closes the kitchen door firmly behind himself. Then, he sprints to the door, ripping it open with a flourish.

There he stands, Geralt Rivia, wearing a crisp purple shirt under his leather jacket – he’s not wearing black for once! – a bottle of wine in his hand and a shy smile on his face that turns sincere the moment Jaskier smiles back.

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly, trying to discreetly admire the gorgeous man in front of him, broad shoulders and eyes like sunlight. His long silver-grey hair is skilfully braided out of his face in a way that tells Jaskier that Cirilla must’ve had a hand in it. Geralt doesn’t really care how his hair looks, but that he made the effort tonight – he’s wearing a _purple_ shirt, for Melitele’s sake! – shows Jaskier how much he cares about this evening, about _him_ , as if the bard was worth it and more. That notion fills his chest with warmth.

“Hi,” Geralt replies, thrusting the wine in his general direction.

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, accepting it with care. “Uh, you’re punctual. I mean, of course, you’re punctual. You’re always punctual. I mean –” He takes a deep breath. “Come in. I have a Christmas surprise for you.”

Geralt lifts an amused eyebrow but lets himself be tugged inside. Jaskier quickly goes through, putting the bottle of red wine on the table, while Geralt hangs his black coat in the hall-stand and puts off his shoes. For a short moment, Jaskier stands there, staring at the table and fussing with the buttons on his sleeves.

 _What if it tastes awful?_ , he worries suddenly. _What if the idea totally backfires and Geralt hates it?_

He hasn’t even tried the vegetables. Shit. What kind of terrible cook doesn’t sample the food?

“You cooked?” Geralt asks out of the blue, appearing behind him.

Jaskier spins around. “How do you...?” He interrupts himself. “Oh. It smells like curry, right?” Geralt has a keen sense of smell. Of course, he’d detect the intense scent of spices in the air.

“Hm,” Geralt hums noncommittally. “Did you burn something?”

“No! Of course, I didn’t,” he hurries to say, quickly grabbing Geralt’s arm and pulling him towards a chair. “All’s perfectly fine. Just sit here, and... relax,” he adds faintly.

His boyfriend’s eyes roam over the table, the half-folded napkin and the one candle he managed to light. Oh god. It looks terrible, doesn’t it? His mother would freak out if a Christmas table ever looked like that – scratch that, if _any_ table ever looked like that. Geralt must be disappointed now. He will realise what a _disaster_ Jaskier is – he didn’t even manage to buy coconut milk, and now he ruined the meal and probably the evening, and possibly all of Christmas –

“You cooked for me,” Geralt whispers, a weird undertone in his voice, almost like awe.

“You cook for me all the time,” the singer reminds him. “I’m sorry. It’s not... it will taste awful. I tried. I really tried. I wanted to do something nice for you because you do nice things for me all the time, but I- I ruined it. And this table is a mess, and...” Automatically, he starts refolding the napkin he abandoned before, but a warm hand on his own stops him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s deep voice hums, and the singer looks up. His boyfriend’s eyes are soft, gleaming golden in the candle light, and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is perfect.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but no sound comes out.

“This is perfect because it is _you_ who did it.” Geralt squeezes his hand. “You _cooked_ for me. Nobody ever cooked for me before.”

“I am, well, I… ah... hm,” Jaskier stutters, closing his mouth with an audible snap. Finally, Geralt’s expression registers, the soft lines of his face, his eyes like molten gold. He doesn’t seem disappointed. Like at all. He seems actually quite happy. How _weird_. Maybe – 

Maybe he understands what Jaskier is trying to say. Geralt is always better with actions than with words.

Maybe, he hasn’t ruined Christmas after all.

 _Yes_ , Geralt’s eyes say, and the tilt of his lips adds, _I love you too_.

A huge weight falls off Jaskier’s shoulders, and following an impulse, he surges forward and captures Geralt’s lips in a hungry kiss. His boyfriend is too surprised to react for a moment, but then he kisses him back, just as hungry, as if he was starving for him. It makes Jaskier’s chest go tight in all the good ways, and he presses a little closer.

“What was that for?” Geralt asks when Jaskier leans away again.

The singer shrugs. “No reason at all. Merry Christmas, Geralt.”

Geralt blinks. “I-... hm.” He cups Jaskier’s cheek almost reverently and replies, “Merry Christmas, Jaskier.”

**Author's Note:**

> ... And merry Christmas to all of you!


End file.
